The Mirror Monologues
by Katadenza
Summary: One girl, two lives. One soul, two voices. Both sides of the mirror, reflecting on what has come before, and what will come after.
1. Waiter

**Author's Note:** Wrote these pieces as gifts for three of my wonderful friends. Decided to publish them when I realized that I've basically written the same character with two drastically different voices without realizing it, lmao.

I hope you'll enjoy them as well.

* * *

Let me tell you about brioche.

I never had any, y'know. Not in this lifetime at least. But sometimes I remember the fluff, the crunch, the sweet creamy filling...

(Brioche has filling, right? Ah well. It doesn't really matter now.)

I would serve it up to the Gardener and he would say, "Waiter, there's nothing there," and I would throw the plate in his stupid face because _fuck you_ , Gardener, THAT WAS GOOD NOT-BRIOCHE I DIDN'T MAKE, JUST FOR YOU. AT LEAST LOOK HAPPY ABOUT IT.

Then my brother would walk up to me and put his hand on my shoulder, shaking his head. I'd calm down, but not really. Another failed delivery from an ex-Postman.

And on a side note, no, I really _do not care_ about Gardener's opinion. I don't know what you're talking about. That plebeian couldn't appreciate brioche even if I shoved it in his face. Was there even brioche still out there, at that time?

I think there was.

There was brioche in that dead man's pocket. It came wrapped in clear cellophane, tied in a nice red ribbon. I liked the red ribbon. I put it in my hair and asked Ma how it looked on me. She said she'd rather have me wear a white ribbon. Fuck her too.

Allen was a lot nicer about it anyway.

I couldn't eat that brioche though, as Gretel took it away from me, horrified. All food, she said, especially the rotten lump I apparently held in my hands, should go to her Mistress' table. I said, "Gretel, I know you care about me, but this brioche is the freshest I've ever seen!"

(It was the _only_ brioche I had ever seen, but shhhh. She didn't know that.)

She only looked at me sadly, and pried it out of my hands. At least she let me keep the ribbon.

Gammon burnt the cellophane. It melted into oil, burning nice and hot even if the smell was just a bit funny. As I warmed my hands, I couldn't stop thinking that I could've baked brioche with the hot flame.

Ugh. How long do I have to wait in this brioche-less existence?

I was a Postman, once. Always in transit from one location to another. That was all I did, all I ever knew, before Gretel finally took a good look at me and gave me back my soul. No matter what happened, to me, or to anyone else, the mail must go through.

(Unfortunately, the mail was never brioche.)

I wasn't used to staying in one place all the time. Not in this lifetime at least.

Allen's very annoying about lifetimes. I _know_ , Allen, I know that to the rest of the world, you do not exist right now; but you _did_ once, and you wouldn't let me forget that.

 _I_ wouldn't let me forget that.

But can you at least give me some brioche instead of just leaving me here to twiddle my thumbs and kick the Gardener around, yapping at me about how "if we could be reborn?" At least the Gardener can do his job, mainly, _my chores_. What can _you_ do?

I even tried to make some myself.

I did that once, right?

Except I tried to serve that to the Gardener too and he would say "Waiter, this is just worms and dirt," and I would throw the plate in his face again because _damn you,_ Gardener, this was GOOD ACTUAL BRIOCHE THAT I _DID_ MAKE, JUST FOR YOU. UNGRATEFUL BASTARD.

And now there's no brioche at all, anymore, anywhere.

Hey Allen, when we remake the world, there better be some fucking brioche in it.


	2. Riliane

I am Riliane Lucifen D'Autriche, and my story has already been told.

I've heard it in whispers on the street as I walk to the market, in the words written down on yellowed pages, even in song, the notes a jaunty tune as they invite listeners to come one, come all, come hear the tale of the malice-born girl who filled the streets with blood.

 _Evil flowers, steadily blooming..._

It took a long time for me to stop my head from turning to the sound of my own name. It took me a long time to learn many things. How to stop the words "We" and "Us" and "Our" from forming in my mouth and leaving my lips, for I am now truly alone. How to sweep the floors and wipe the windows. How to tend to the fields without throwing myself down with all the tools, stubbornly refusing to move like a _child._

A child... hah, has it really been that long?

I learned all these things, and the world somehow kept turning. The events of that fateful year were not forgotten, and while my hair was cut short the endless litany of my mistakes only grew longer. I saw the facts twist and turn until they became just as unrecognizable as I was. But always, besides me, there were the cast, the characters, the larger-than-life figures who stayed the same all throughout: the king of blue, the knight of red, the maiden of green...

And yet...

I almost never heard about you.

Allen, you became nothing more than a footnote in our own story. They never sang of how you made me brioche every afternoon at the ringing of the bells, with just the right amount of sugar. They never whispered to each other about how you chased my bratty self across a forest, finding me at the seashore when no one else would. They never told their children about how you gave up everything for me, your morals, your love, and eventually, your life.

You were nothing to them but a lowly, cowardly servant with the same face as mine.

And the worst part was that I used to think the same way, until I could do nothing but scream helplessly, banging my fists helplessly against a locked door.

Allen, it just wasn't _fair._ I heard iteration after iteration of our tale, and every time I did I grew sicker and sicker just knowing everything they left out, the words of stories untold. It eventually got to the point where I told Clarith that I couldn't go to the market anymore, because if I heard those first few notes again I would throw a fit in the middle of town square.

If I had my way, Allen, if music could flow from my soul just as easily as the great bards, if I could sing as brilliantly as Clarith's beloved used to do, I would compose a song, several songs, just for you: the story of how you saved my life and soul, even if I really didn't deserve a thing.

And I would tell it _right._ I would leave _nothing out._

No maidens of green setting political traps for unwary princesses. I would sing of how a maiden of white found friendship and love with the kindest person she had ever met. I would sing of their tragedy, of how they were torn apart from simply being at the wrong place at the wrong time. I would sing of the puppet king of blue, my first love, and how he was manipulated by the one he trusted the most. I would sing of the knight of red and her own sacrifices, her own self-destruction, and how she was separated from everything she knew and cared about. And I would sing of how, despite everything, our stories were not yet over.

I would sing of redemption.

I would take all those songs, Allen, and I would sing them over and over again until they would resonate throughout the land forever, like the Eternal Lullaby that plays between the ticks and tocks of every single clock, in the space between life and death, between sleep and dreams.

But I couldn't. I still can't.

Time passed and I lived and died and lived again, and yet, nothing changed. Whether I walked the streets of Jakoku or Levianta, whether I wore a kimono or an oversized coat, you were still a footnote, and I was still a despot. The world fell apart, and honestly, I saw no difference between the Elphegort of just before the end and the Lucifenia of our time. Such is the nature of evil.

But _now,_ Allen, now we can change all that. We can cross it out and start all over, live and laugh with everyone we ever loved.

I'm so glad you came to see me.

My mind creaks as I force myself to think of words written on a yellowed page, rolled into a glass bottle that feels familiar in my hands. It manifests into existence just before my will sinks once more into _hers._

Allen, Alexiel. My best servant, my little brother, my other half.

My story may have been told, but I don't want it to end here, not now. Not with what's at stake.

I trusted you to always protect me, and I still trust you now.

Please, save me.


End file.
